But Mikhail avoided his stare entirely. In fact, he needed to be as far away as possible from his brother, so when the guard ordered them to advance, he fell into step with two guys he’d met last year in camp—Niko and Rodion.
No one said a word, but they all recognized each other. A gag order was always enforced for the first forty-eight hours of the training. The first one to crack—to ask for an extra blanket or a second bowl of soup—would be sent to solitary confinement.
Mikhail knew it wasn’t going to be him. He had nothing to say, no particular need to use his voice when his fists spoke a language of their own.
A week into their time there, they were sparring in minus thirteen degrees, snow crackling under their boots and mixing with the sounds of their exhaustion. Mikhail lounged at the thirteen-year-old in front of him, gripping his head and pushing it into his raised knee. A pop ringed out, and when the boy straightened, his nose was bleeding, probably broken.
Instinctively, Mikhail looked to his right, where Wolf fought a few feet away, taking down every boy the guards threw at him. He hated seeing him here, hated that his brother was a constant, pesky reminder of their shared past he couldn’t get rid of.
Why did he have to be here? Why couldn’t he give him some fucking peace of mind?
Fuck this, he thought, leaving his opponent and the formation they were forced to stay in.
“Ty kuda poshyol? Nazad v stroy, zhivo!” a guard barked, the warning obvious in his tone.
Where the fuck was he going? he’d asked.
But Mikhail couldn’t care less about authority. He rushed toward Wolf, cracking his neck and ignoring the pain of his previous fight. He needed more, and he knew damn well no other kid could offer him the kind of resolve he was looking for.
“What the fuck?” Wolf growled, stumbling forward with Mikhail on his back. He didn’t have to guess who it was. He somehow knew already, and after pushing Mikhail off to the icy ground, he looked down at him, conflicted.
“Missed me much?” Mikhail smirked, getting back to his feet, wiping blood off his mouth.
Wolf’s opponent began to retreat. The guards circled them, but when they saw the first punch connecting to Wolf’s jaw, they didn’t intervene. If anything, this was a good thing—turning brother against brother was a unique kind of win for the training camp.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Wolf spat out. “I try to help you. To give you what you need?—”
Mikhail laughed, the sound tasting bittersweet. “Why don’t you talk to me? Why don’t you want me?” he mocked, throwing another punch. This time, Wolf caught his arm just in time, twisting it behind Mikhail’s back.
Pain erupted through his body, but it wasn’t the kind that hurt. It was the kind he needed, the kind he deserved for all those years in which he’d done terrible, terrible things to him. Whatever had once existed between the two of them had rotted away, leaving only guilt and trauma behind.
The more Wolf tried to win back his affection, the more that guilt grew for Mikhail, like a monster with endless heads he could never conquer. Love wasn’t what he needed, what he deserved. Hatred was cleaner.
Hatred could be earned.
Mikhail lunged for his brother again, landing a deep punch in Wolf’s gut.
“You think you’re so much better than the rest of us,” Mikhail spat, ignoring the voice in his head that revolted at his actions. “Everyone here knows the Pakhan favors you. Without him to support you, what the fuck have you even done to prove your worth?”
Wolf’s upper lip curled upward. Finally, he was growing angry.
Good. Let him hate him.
Let him remember what he’d done.
The bitter victory pushed Mikhail to lounge with another punch. He didn’t stop when the guards eventually whistled, or when Wolf threw him to the ground and kicked his chest. He needed to see that look on his brother’s face—the look of someone who finally understood what Mikhail had become.
34
Mikhail
Idon’t look up at her when I close my fist around the coin. If I do, I won’t leave—a mistake I can’t afford to make. I stayed when I shouldn’t have before, and it almost got Wolfgang killed. Never will I allow the same thing to happen to my wife, no matter how sweetly she begs me to abandon my plans.
I need to know if Remus is targeting her at all—since he’s technically her step-brother—and if we can end this shit show by taking Chicago back from the Italians under reasonable circumstances that won’t throw us back into a war.
Then, I can relax.
I’ll be back in control. Because without this information, I’m shooting in the dark, and what happened that night twenty-something years ago when the guards caught me feeding Wolfgang…
